Rescue Me
by Queen Gwenyvere
Summary: Chapter Three added. Rating changed because of addition of SMUTit finally happened kids. Nine and Rose have teh sex. Inspired by Kristin Hoffmann's song Rescue Me. I wanted to write about the non running from imminent peril ways the Doctor and Rose rescue
1. Chapter 1

Save (v.)—to rescue from harm, danger, or loss; to set free from the consequences of sin; to redeem

He is used to saving people. Rather, he is used to attempting to save people, though his success rate is admittedly questionable. For nine hundred odd years, through eight regenerations, anytime he gets involved, people get hurt. Many times, people die.

He has been brought to trial for his crimes, for interfering. He has been convicted, he has been cleared. He has rebelled and he has ruled. Crimes punished, crimes rewarded, round and round and round he goes through the whirl pool of Time, only stopping when he is presented with no other choice.

If he stops and thinks about the blood on his hands—_arms face legs too much blood to bathe in to swim in_—he knows he will weep, and the last Time Lord cannot afford to weep. If he stops and thinks about the stench of death that follows him—_across time and space from life to life can't be cleaned the stink of it in his clothes_—he knows he will go mad.

Madder.

Maddest.

Downright certifiable. All he needs is a hat and his own tea party. Whatever sanity he may have laid claim to was obliterated, reduced to dust and ash, wiped from the Universe as complete as Gallifrey, in a maelstrom of fire.

It begins in fire and ends in fire—_pain fire scream the screaming oh I'm sorry take me don't leave me alone let me burn_—and he knows in the unending current of time that all of this has happened before and all of it will happen again. Wars have raged do rage will rage. Destruction has laid waste does lay waste will lay waste. Death has reigned does reign will reign. Refugees have survived do survive will survive. Planets have burned do burn will burn.

He thinks he will never get the stench of burning flesh scorched earth burning from his nose.

He is the Mad Hatter sitting at a table set for a party and none of the invited guests are alive. He is a party of one amidst the splendor of the Universe and tries not to think about how he killed everyone who would have celebrated the way he does.

He is used to trying to help, and knows it is a rarity that no one dies because of him. He is not used to reaching out, to grasping a stranger's hand—_flesh soft human girl_—and saying "Run!" and finding that he is the one who is saved.

He is saved by a girl, by a human girl. Equal opportunity, he is, and supports women's rights and all that—there are planets he has visited that are favorites of his on which females are dominant and males are subjugated—but that a slip barely out of her teenage years becomes his savior boggles his brilliant brain.

She is blond and beautiful and braver than he initially gives her credit for.

Alice has joined the party and he wants nothing more than to show her Wonderland.

The first time she saves his life, she swings to his aid, an angel sailing over fire—why is it always fire that brings the deepest sorrows and strongest joys? He didn't know then, couldn't have known, that she would save him in a million other ways that have nothing to do with stopping the alien of the moment from killing him.

She finds him in the garden, It is overgrown wild unkempt taken on an existence not governed by his actions. The only constant, it seems, is consequences.

Action: Time War

Consequence: He is recalled to Gallifrey

Action: Annihilation of the Daleks

Consequence: Annihilation of the Time Lords

Action: He pushes the button that destroys his planet

Consequence: He is plagued by horrible dreams and doesn't sleep

It is three thirty in the morning, Greenwich Mean Time, which is what he has kept the TARDIS clocks set to since her arrival; for his own purposes, he does not switch to British Summer Time, and if they return during the absurdity that is Daylight Savings Time, he thinks Rose will adapt for the duration of their stay—which is never long.

Tonight, he kept her up as long as possible, then plastered on a false grin and sent her to bed. He thinks she doesn't know that he doesn't sleep. He reads. He tinkers. He wanders throughout his magnificent ship and her ever-changing corridors and lets her lead him. The first time she leads him to Rose's bedroom, he blushes and walks away. The second time, he stands in the doorway and watches her sleep. He worries that the next time he might just get in bed with her.

Thankfully, tonight, the TARDIS leads him to a garden he hasn't seen in a hundred years. He remembers it being lush, Eden. He expects to find decay and rot and more death. Instead, he finds that it has lived without him. It has flourished.

He considers for a moment that perhaps not everything he touches will turn to ruins.

Standing in the center of his own private Paradise, he inhales lilac and jasmine, letting their fragrance soothe him. Near him, a patch of _crystherium utilia_ grows. On Earth, the flower is known as a Bird of Paradise, but on other planets in a far corner of the galaxy, it has turned a race of ignorant bipedal reptiles into a cunning, deadly warrior race hell-bent on galactic domination. It amazes the Doctor that such a thing of beauty can lead to such utter desolation.

He inhales the scents of dozens more flowers and it occurs to him that there are no roses in his garden. He thinks he must remedy this.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asks the TARDIS.

The light turns gold and the air grows warm and for a moment he thinks he can smell roes. He hears a faint howl and then the TARDIS sings him a song of peace.

"I think it'll take more than a stroll through a field of flowers for me to find peace, old girl," he says blithely.

She sings him a song of relaxation and he feels her urging him to find his center.

He sighs, relenting. "Alright, alright." He knows what she wants him to do.

Within moments, he has shed his socks, boots, jumper, and jacket. Closing his eyes, he digs his toes into the velvety apple grass and breathes deeply. He takes long breaths in and exhales on steady, controlled streams. Focusing inward, he feels the strength in his calves and in his thighs. He feels the firmness in his core, in his torso and hears the steady rhythm of his hearts. He feels the aching in his neck, shoulders, and upper back, and thinks the ache runs right down the center of him, straight to whatever semblance of a soul he has left. Bringing his arms out in front of him, he opens his eyes and begins to move. His movements are fluid, practiced and controlled. It is a form of calisthenics he learned at University, one that is meant to help with focus. Skilled practioners can use this form to block out certain senses.

He hopes it will dull the sound of the screaming.

He can feel the pull of the stars fade to a distant hum. He lets go of his hold on their place in Time, knowing the TARDIS will go on without his assistance for a while. He closes his eyes again as he continues his movements, hoping the images that are seared into the back of his eyelids leave him be for a moment.

All he wants, though he knows he is undeserving, is peace.

The next time he opens his eyes, he finds Rose perched on a nearby rock. She is dressed in a men's button down shirt and shorts that seem to be little more than knickers. Her legs are hugged to her chest and her chin rests on her knees; her long blonde hair is pulled atop her head in a messy bun.

"Hullo," she murmurs, as though afraid to shatter the stillness.

He does not jerk to a halt, simply stills himself. He looks at her bare, smooth legs and cotton candy pink toe nails. Meeting her eyes is safer, he decides, until the simple beauty of her makeup-free face takes his breath away.

"How did you find me?" he asks quietly.

She shrugs, "I was coming back from the loo but instead of the hallway back to my room, the TARDIS took me here." She brazenly eyes his naked torso. "Can't imagine what she did that for," Rose says cheekily.

Sighing, he lifts his eyes to the starry sky and notices for the first time that it is the same star pattern he remembers from his boyhood. Mentally, he growls at his ship and feels her gentle laughter in response.

"So what were you doing just now?" she asks, breaking into his thoughts. "Some sort of Tai Chi?"

"It's called _A'Rotsa Ot'n_," he answers. "A bit like Tai Chi, I suppose."

"What's it for?" She changes position, tucks one leg under her bum and leans forward, chin in palm and elbow on naked thigh and he can see how high the shirt isn't buttoned. "Next planet we go to, am I going to find out you're some sort of deadly black belt?"

If she sees him flinch at the word deadly, she makes no show of it. He summons a reassuring grin. "It's supposed to help you focus, hone your senses, or block out some."

Her eyes widen. "Block out your senses! Like what, induce blindness or something?"

"Not exactly." Although that would be nice, he thinks as she inadvertently gives him a glimpse down her shirt.

Rose bites her lip and he finds himself staring at the crystherium for a distraction. It's very orange and has oblong petals that—

"Will you teach me?" Once again, her voice breaks the quiet.

His eyes dart back to her face. "What? Teach you A'Rotsa? No human's ever done it before."

She slides off the rock in one graceful move and stands before him, so trusting and pure it makes him ache. "Why not? Because we're too daft to understand?"

Her voice is light, joking. Her good moods are a balm and make him feel almost worthy of her implicit trust. He smiles and it doesn't feel so forced this time. "Well, you humans do only have five senses. Alright, six, if you believe M. Night Shyamalan."

She snorts at the reference. "And I s'pose you being an alien you've got more than five senses." She steps closer to him, so petite in her bare feet. He can smell the fruity aroma of her shampoo and the minty remnant of her toothpaste.

"Oh yeah," he remarks, hoping that he sounds casual and not at all like he's thinking anything remotely carnal about her. "I've got loads more senses than you lot."

She scoffs, "Superior little Time Lord, aren't you? Are you all this stuck up or is it just you?"

"It's just me." The words are out before he can stop them and their impact nearly flattens them both.

Rose stammers, realize her slip. "Doctor—I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean…"

Like a skilled actor slipping into a familiar role, he cracks a smile as though he isn't a walking open wound. He would bleed all over her if she'd let him. "Don't mention it, no harm done."

Softly, so quiet he can barely hear her, she whispers, "Yes there is." As she reaches up to cup his cheek with her palm, he closes his eyes, feeling hot, violent tears prick at him. Her hand is always soft and warm whenever she touches him and now is no different. He nuzzles her palm, cannot stop himself, cannot stop his lips from pressing a kiss against her flesh. She molds herself to him, rising on tip-toe as best she can to embrace him.

He is stiff at first but she holds him so firmly, pulling his head to her shoulder, her fingernails lightly scratching the nape of his neck, and he cannot help but surrender to her. He cannot decide if it is shameful or shameless how tightly he holds her.

"I'm here." Her lips are beside his ear, hot breath tickles his skin. "It's alright."

"You're all I have left," he manages to choke out, despite the growing lump in his throat.

"You have me," she whispers, and her voice is so full of promise the tears behind his closed lids threaten to spill.

"You'll leave me." They all do.

"Not until you ask me to." She pulls back slightly, forcing him to look at her. He is stunned to see her brown eyes shining with unshed tears. Tears for him. The look on her face tells him that she is willing to take his pain if he would but let her. He strokes her cheek with one finger and causes her right eye to shed its tears.

"Don't weep for me, Rose Tyler."

She brings both hands to his face, lightly stroking her fingertips through his short hair. "My Doctor," she says. "You can't stand for anyone to love you, can you?"

The word strikes terror in him and in a flash he envisions the thousand different ways loving him could get her killed. He tries to wrench away but she is shockingly strong. "Rose…"

"Why can't you weep for them?" She bring his face to her lips, brushes them across his forehead. He automatically closes his eyes and as her lips touch his lids he knows he will not be able to keep his tears at bay much longer. She is so gentle, so loving. She kisses his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, murmuring soothing words he cannot make out.

"They don't deserve my tears. They deserve more than that."

Rose stops her ministrations. Her tears for him are falling freely now. "What about what you deserve?"

He shakes his head. "I'm responsible for their deaths."

"And you're responsible for everyone else being alive. You saved the Universe." Her hands fall flat against his bare chest. "You saved me."

Her eyes are wide and full of tears and so much love and the next vision he gets of her covered in blood he knows it is his own she wears, and that she coaxed it from him.

Before he is even aware of what he's doing, they are a mass of lips and tongues and teeth and tears and his are falling and mixing with hers and their tears begin to wash clean the blood that covers them both. His hands are in her hair, fisted, tugging, forceful, and she is pliant in his arms and as she whispers love into his mouth he hears himself sob and then they are sinking sinking into the TARDIS, into the soft apple grass, through the earth, falling through time and space and through the remains of Gallifrey, of his beautiful beloved home and how he wishes he could take her there but he cannot. All he can do is shed the tears he has been holding for months by his timeline and ten years by hers and the amount of time doesn't matter because he is here and she is here and they are a mass of limbs and salt and she is holding him to her chest and he can hear the steady beat of her one heart and knows it beats for him.

She lays them both down on the ground and he dimly registers surprise at how easily she shoulders his weight. Greedily, he wraps his arms around her waist and buries his face in her hair, kissing her neck as he weeps, feeling her stroke his back and rock him. He hears her thoughts in his head _love love beautiful sad so broken I'll share your pain let me share this let me take this for you. _Though they do not make love, he marks this as the moment they become lovers.

They lie there, long after his tears finally subside, under the stars he saw as a boy, and for the first time in months and decades, he sleeps through the night, in her arms.

In the morning, he wakes before she does, and after watching her for what may have been millennia, leaves her lying on the grass, knowing the TARDIS will lead her to him when she wakes.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Redeem** _**(v.)**—_to free from what distresses or harms_

She is used to blood and loss. Rather, she is trying to become numb to them and does her best not to let on that the atrocities she's seen (some in spite of them and some because of them) are seared into her mind. The memories burn like a fresh brand and she has yet to find a balm that will soothe her.

He has given her many wonderful memories and quite often they have peaceful adventures. If she is lucky, she dreams of their trip to Chanson, a planet on which everything and everyone sings—her favorite singers were the butterflies. If she is lucky, she dreams of their trip to Semoh, a planet populated entirely by talking horses; the Semohans are a race indebted to the Doctor and as such he and Rose were treated as honored guests—the King graced her with a ride along the coast at sunset, ferrying her Himself.

If she is lucky, she distracts him into telling her stories of places he has traveled before he knew her, and by the time he realizes how late it is, she is beyond the point of exhaustion and drops into a dead, dreamless sleep.

On the nights she is not so lucky, and the memories of the blood they have not kept from spilling haunt her dreams and rob her of a restful sleep, she occupies herself by reading. Sometimes, she writes letters to Jackie and Mickey that she will never send, or letters to her father she could not send even if she wanted to. Other times, she cooks—their trips to Earth and other planets for nutritional necessities are becoming more frequent the less sleep she gets. She and the Doctor have feasted on roast duck, turkey and all the trimmings, her favorite Italian foods; he has converted more exotic (read: alien) recipes into measurements she understands and sometimes her culinary adventures are as exciting as their foreign (read: alien) ones.

He never asks why they feast so lavishly at such odd hours. He merely waits for her to come find him or for the TARDIS to bring him to the kitchen. He smiles his magnificent toothy smile and digs into her latest creation with gusto. She doesn't know if he ever hates anything she makes, because he clears his plate every time and usually goes back for seconds. She suspects that if she _does_ cook up something unsavory he will choke it down and never let on.

She suspects the things they protect each other from could fill an ocean.

He never asks if she's had a nightmare, as they sit eating and drink tea, or something stronger. He doesn't tell her it's late or query as to why she's conscious at an hour when most humans prefer to be deep asleep. He simply sits with her and chats, then helps her pack away the leftovers and stack the dishwasher when they're done eating. Then he hugs her and kisses her forehead, his lips soft and cool and the closest thing to a balm she knows save _his hand his smile his eyes his voice_, and walks away to sleep or read or brood.

She never follows him. These are the times when she cannot take his hand and trust that he'll lead her to safety. He has his own demons, phantoms she will never know, and she doesn't want to add to his burden. He has known so much pain, so much loss, and she knows what horrible guilt he would feel if he knew what haunted her.

He has been smiling less since the Dalek. She cannot imagine the guilt he feels, knowing that one survived, like him, that he did not succeed in destroying them all. She cannot imagine what he's witness, or what it must feel like to have something in common with your greatest nemesis.

Rose Tyler hides her pain, keeps her demons locked away, so as to provide him with some measure of solace. When he smiles, she can see forever and know as long as he's with her and they are in the light, it will be alright. It is the dark spaces that they both fear, each of them frightened for their own reasons. All she has to do is keep him smiling, and she knows she can accomplish this by smiling back, by cracking a joke, by asking for some chips and teasing him about his daft features. If she smiles for him she can pretend she isn't dying a bit inside and that every time more blood is shed or the more that Death surrounds them, a bit of her dies as well.

After what happened in Utah, she knows he fears that he will cause her death, however inadvertently. She wonders if he's terrified of losing her. She is terrified of leaving him. She cannot fathom it, not even for a second. As far as she is concerned, she will travel with him until she's old and gray, or until he kicks her out, whichever comes first.

If only she could sleep. They travel to New York on New Year's Eve, 1999—he wants to see how the people react when the world _doesn't_ end with the dawn of Y2K—and before the ball drops, she slips into an absurdly large and even more absurdly designed Duane Reade for some over the counter sleeping pills. She hopes whatever legal sleeping aids she can by from the pharmacy will put her into a deep enough sleep that the nightmares will stay at bay. The pills fail and she wakes drenched in sweat and tears and feeling impossibly groggy and disoriented.

One night as she wanders the TARDIS, she stumbles across something akin to a wine cellar. It is immense and probably rivals the Queen's own collection. He has racks of reds, whites, ports, and sherries. He has a cupboard of other liquors as well, some familiar and some not. She takes a bottle of merlot and drinks the entire thing in her room before going to sleep. The nightmares stay away but she wakes with a vicious hangover and cannot decide which is worse, the disease or the cure. When she stumbles out to the kitchen, her head pounding and even the dim lights of the TARDIS too much for her eyes, he says nothing, merely makes her coffee and a sufficiently greasy breakfast that she forces herself to eat despite her nausea.

After she eats the last bit of bacon and sops up runny egg yolks with buttery toast, he takes her by the hand and leads her to the Med Bay. She wants to say something, have a suitable excuse—she's willing to fall back on the old PMS excuse—but she cannot find the words. She waits for him to yell at her, to her cross for nicking his wine and getting stinking drunk, but he doesn't. He merely helps her up on a table and runs some sort of nifty hangover-curing alien tech over her head.

She feels one of his cool hands cupping the base of her skull as the other wields the healing device. All at once, the pounding in her head subsides and the stabbing pain behind her eyes dissipates and she's not sure which is more soothing, the Spock tech or his flesh against hers,

"Thanks," she manages feebly, feeling spectacularly stupid. Her eyes meet his and it seems as though the two of them have become frozen in time. He sets down the device and brings his other hand to her face. As she watches, he closes his eyes and runs his fingertips over the contours of her face, like a blind man trying to get a sense of her. His fingers linger at her temples and she feels a slight pressure as they sink a bit into her flesh. Sighing, Rose closes her eyes as he beings to massage her temples. In spite of herself, her head sinks forward and the crown of her skull comes to rest against his chest. One hand travels over her hair and back to the nape of her neck, where he begins to lightly massage her. The rhythmic double _thump-thump_ of his hearts reverberates through her, sound conducted by bone and brain and connective tissues.

She thinks, _If I could only rest here every night, this might be enough to keep the nightmares away._

She hears his breath catch and he stops his ministrations. Her lids flutter open and she cranes her neck to look up at him. Her own breathing hitches as she sees a maelstrom of emotions flash across his angular face in an instant—confusion, shock, anger, grief, pain, and something she cannot identify but might be deep affection cross his features in the span of a second. Then he grins brightly, that manic, desperate smile he gets when he's trying to hide something from her.

"Right then," he says, stepping one step back away from her and her body aches as his warmth disappears. "Better go shower then. Can't have you sitting about all day. Places to go, you know?"

"What disaster are we to avert today?" she asks, her inflection sounding as forcefully cheerful as his own.

He shakes his head. "No disasters today. No wars. The universe can get by without us for a moment. Today, we take a holiday!"

Never before has she found such relief in such mundane words. "A holiday?" How utterly _normal_ of them. She slips off the table. "What for?"

He shrugs, "Dunno. Thought we could use a break. So what would you like? Hiking? Dog sledding? Swimming?"

Before she can stop her own reaction, Rose feels her eyebrows perk up at the word _swimming_. He sees her reaction before she can hide it and he smiles. "Right. New Polynesia it is then. A whole planet full of islands like in Earth's Pacific." He turns to leave, shouting over his shoulder, "I'll set the coordinates while you go get ready. And don't forget the sunscreen! Can't have you burning up in the sun. You humans, so delicate and susceptible to sunlight, you are. Course, you'd probably be a bit more resistant if you hadn't spent a century destroying your own ozone…."

His voice drifts off down the hallway and she cannot help but smile.

They spend the day swimming, sunning themselves and relaxing on New Fiji. Rather, she does most of the swimming, in a black halter bikini and slathered in sunscreen per his instructions, but she gets to see him out of the leather jacket and jumper and although she misses him in black and leather, the sight of him in trunks and a white cotton vest make her rejoice that they do as much running as they do—he is long and lithe, surprisingly muscular despite is lean appearance and Rose is suddenly struck with the hope that a massive wave comes and robs him of his clothing so that she may truly appreciate his physical form.

She eventually coaxes him into the water, only ankle deep at first, but soon she is splashing him and he gives chase but oh she is a runner too, and a strong swimmer and she dives beneath the water and surfaces yards away from him, forcing him to swim after her. Only when she turns her head minutely to one side to take breaths, her strokes long and perfect and she's glad Jackie made her take swim lessons all those years ago, does she see him, his long body quickly gaining on her smaller one. He is fast and sure in his swimming and soon she feels herself water-tackled. She takes a deep breath as he pulls her under and as they sink she turns in his arms and opens her eyes. The salt water stings but she works past it and they engage in an aquatic staring contest. Fish swim around them in perfect green-blue water but all she knows is him and her and _now_ and he has her hands as they both tread several feet below the surface and she has no fear of drowning because she knows he will not let her sink any deeper than she already has. He will keep her here until she is ready, until she can stand it no longer, until she needs him to help her back into the sunlight and fresh air.

She wonders how long Time Lords can hold their breath under water.

It seems to her that they have been under for hours, days, weeks, looking at each other and existing here in the quiet space. She can feel her chest begin to tighten and knows she needs to go up. He seems to know this too, because he winks and wraps his strong arms around her waist and with a firm kick rockets them back to the surface. They emerge laughing and gasping for breath and she wraps her arms around his neck. The sun beats down on them as they tread water and inhale the fragrant air. They play for hours, racing, trying to dunk each other, engaging in splashing wars. One time, in slightly shallower water, he ducks under the surface and before she can stop him, he is between her legs and as he rises above the water she is sitting on his shoulders and he is holding her legs to keep her secure and by God they engage in a game of Chicken with some other swimmers. She laughs and shrieks until she is breathless and though they do not win, she stays above water longer than most of the women and when she finally pitches back off his shoulders and into the water, he has her by the wrist and hauls her back into the light before she even hits the sandy bottom.

They swim until their skin turns pruny and the sun begins to set. They clamber out of the ocean and collapse in a fit of giggles onto their towels, content to lie back and dry and watch the magnificent sunset. Somewhere nearby, a band begins to play and as the sky fills with fiery reds and oranges, brilliant pinks and deep purples, she lets the music and the scent of orchids wash over her and feels for the first time in a long time truly content. Lying side by side on their towels, she feels him take her hand, as he has done so many times, and he runs his thumb over her knuckles until long after the sun sets and the stars come out. A purple-skinned, horned waiter from a beach-front restaurant interrupts them, once, bringing them complementary drinks that taste of pineapple and peach and snacks of fruit and grilled meats. Famished after a long day, they eat in companionable silence and are delighted to learn there is a nightly fireworks display. The sky alights with bursts of red, pink, purple, green, orange, and white and she oohs and ahhs and every so often sneaks glances at him, only to find him looking not at the fireworks, but at her. She wonders, briefly, if the fire in the sky reminds him of other things, and that is why he isn't watching.

Once they are sufficiently dry, she joins him on his towel, sitting between his legs, her back against his chest as he points out constellations and tells her stories of all the stars and planets in the sky. He makes her laugh and enchants her and when she starts to yawn, he rocks her and pulls her to lie down with him. As he pillows her head on his chest, she can't help but ask, "Shouldn't we be getting back to the TARDIS?"

"Nah," he replies, his fingers working their way through her tangled, damp locks. "This planet is peaceful. Nothing here to go bump in the night." He smiles at this. "We can stay here a while longer."

She sighs and relaxes against him, listening to the waves and the double beating of his hearts. His fingers play expertly with her hair and blaze new trails on her skin and between his touch and the sounds that surround them, she feels herself beginning to doze.

"Ahm fallin asleep," she mumbles.

"S'ok," he assures her. "You rest now."

"'Ere? Izunt it illegal?" Her words are muffled by sleep she cannot fight and his skin.

"Nope," he replies quickly, cheekily. "We could sleep out here for a week."

"But—" she begins, struggling through drowsiness to sit up, to look at him. Her heart begins to pound as the thought of sleep brings her to the thought of nightmares. It was a lovely day and she hopes once they get back to the TARDIS, she dreams of it, or that the excursion has made her so bone tired that she is dreamless, but she knows that bad dreams are likely.

"Rose Tyler," he says gently, his voice so firm and yet so soothing. He moves her a bit, so that he can meet her eyes and the intensity in them, the affection and worry burn so bright that she can seem them even in the moonlight. Just like earlier, his fingertips trace the contours of her face, but this time his eyes stay open. She feels slightly abashed, wishing that she had more makeup on, or that she had bathed and didn't smell of sand and salt and sunscreen. But he looks at her with something she would classify as love if he was anyone else that she forgets her naked face and less-than clean body and knows only him and this and _now_.

"I can take them from you, you know," he says and in an instant she knows he knows. He _knows._ How does he know?

She furrows her brow. "Take them?"

He looks away for the first time in what seems like hours. "Take your memories. Wipe the bad things from your mind so that they can't haunt you anymore."

The notion is both tempting and terrifying and she wants to, oh how she is tempted. But then it occurs to her. "Wait. You mean you'd wipe my memory? So that I couldn't remember them at all."

He smiled and she knows it is only for her benefit. "Yup. Think of it as getting rid of things you don't need to hold on to."

She sits up now, awake. "Will I—will I forget anything else?"

He shrugs, as though they are talking about changing their preferred brand of dish soap. "Maybe. Not likely though. I'll be careful."

He's offering to take away her pain, purge her of the images of blood and death and give her nothing but a blissful sleep. But then, she thinks, he will still remember and he alone will carry those memories and how much more pain can he expect to bear silently?

"No." Her voice is full of resolve, so much so that it shocks them both.

He frowns, "Why not? I thought you'd jump at the chance." His hands slides up out of the darkness and cups her cheek and she cannot help but nuzzle it. Breathing deeply, she inhales his scent, salty and sandy like her, but so deeply masculine, musky and so purely _him_ that it makes her dizzy, makes her high. "I know you haven't been sleeping," he says softly. "I'm sorry I couldn't keep you from seeing those things." He sighs. "I wish I'd thought to do something sooner. I wish you'd said something."

"I didn't," she says, lifting her eyes to his. "Because I knew you'd do this, take responsibility, take the blame." She sees his gaze falter, knows he is about to protest, to insist that he _is_ to blame, but she lays a finger to his lips. "They only haunt me because I let them, because I'm still afraid of them. I forget that I survived. I lived. I made it because of you. We helped, sometimes, and the times we didn't, I know we tried and that's the best we can do. You do your best."

"It's not enough," he whispers.

"Yes it is," she insists. "It is more than enough. D'ya know why I don't want you to take my memories, the ones that keep me awake? Because I don't want you to be the only one who is forced to carry them. I'm stronger than that, than to let you bear the burden of them alone. Before I met you, I didn't think I was strong enough, but you've shown me that I am. You've shown me so many amazing things, taken me so many wonderful places." She sees some sand stuck in his short hair and brushes it out. "There have been bad times too, but that's life. You've shown me a better way of living and I wouldn't give up anything for that, not even a few bad memories."

He gathers her in his arms then, rocking her again and pulling her back down onto the towel. "My brave Rose," he murmurs, and she wraps an arm around his waist. She feels his cool lips press into her hair. "Alright then, I won't take your memories."

"Remind me that they can't hurt me anymore," she asks, and hopes it doesn't sound too much like begging. "Do that for me, and I'll be right as rain."

"That I can do." She hears the smile in his voice and once again his fingers do wonderful things in her hair and on her skin and the sound of crashing surf and two hearts surround her. She closes her eyes and hears him begin to talk to her. Instantly, she realizes she can't understand what he is saying, even though the TARDIS is supposed to translate everything, and knows, somehow, that he must be speaking in his native tongue. He could be rattling off the phone book in reverse alphabetical order, but it sounds so beautiful, and is so soothing, that he may as well be singing her a lullaby.

She dreams in soft colors, warm, rich, honey-golds. When she wakes, the sun is rising and she realizes she has not needed drugs or pills or distractions to sleep. Feeling rested for the first time in ages, she is greeted by the sight of him smiling. As they head back to the TARDIS, bickering over who gets the first shower, she decides that tonight, regardless of the demons that may haunt her, she will not let them best her. They cannot harm her, not unless she lets them. You can live with your memories, or you can be tortured by them. She has learned that from him.

She smiles and races him back to the TARDIS. "Last one in makes breakfast for a week!"


	3. Chapter 3

_**Deliver**_ (**v**.)-- _To set free, as from misery, peril, or evil_

He is aware of her presence even before she clears her throat. With her feet clad in only socks and her steps light, he knows she thinks he cannot sense her nearness. She forgets, he knows, that he isn't human, that, despite his appearance, he is not limited to only five senses. She forgets that even those basic five senses are heightened for him in a way she will never know.

Buried beneath the TARDIS console, sonic screwdriver set firmly to setting seven thousand-two or: "tinker," he smells her, freshly showered, the scent of lavender wafting from her hair, her skin perfumed with vanilla. Despite her soft approach, her footsteps reverberate through the floor and he feels the gentle vibrations around him. And, if a keen nose and highly tuned body weren't enough, the TARDIS changes her humming, and he hears the ghost of a song in his mind, singing _"Rose…Rose…Rose…"_

He smiles to himself, giving his ship an affectionate pat before returning to his tinkering. He wonders how long it will take the lavender and vanilla-scented human to announce herself. He is content to wait, to let her watch him. He knows she likes to watch him and gets so few opportunities, what with all the running from imminent peril and the manic, mad-cap pace at which he sets their lives. Always running, hiding, laughing, and saving, they are-running from danger, hiding from the authorities, saving the past and the future, the now. He never stops and so she never stops and sometimes when she falls into such a deep sleep that he must resort to slightly bastardish ways of waking her-dumping her into an ice cold bath comes to mind-he feels almost bad for not being a man who enjoys time off and leisure.

Almost.

He smiles at the memory of her shrieks as her nightie-clad body hit the water and how she yelled and glared and raged at him until the sight of her sopping wet, nightgown clinging to her curves and leaving very little to the imagination, forced him to silence her in such a way that ultimately led to him shagging her up against the bathroom wall. He frowns slightly as he remembers that he was rougher than he had intended, and how he'd nearly gone off the minute he was inside her. A sodding Time Lord, nine hundred years old he is, and he had no more control than a boy fresh out of puberty. How Rose had laughed, wickedly, and how he's repaid her for her laughter.

Nine hundred year old Time Lords know how to make a woman scream. He'd been sure she'd screamed so loudly that Jack would come running.

Jack didn't, and Rose eventually took the opportunity to pull some rather loud noises out of him as well.

He feels a sock-covered foot play with the hem of his trousers, tickling his calf, her toes wiggling against his flesh. In an instant, with such dexterity that he momentarily gloats over the keenness of his reflexes, he grabs her foot and is rewarded with her laughter.

She laughed the first day he took her hand, and he remembers every time she has laughed since. He keeps them all catalogued and will remember them long after she has turned to dust. The thought is like a fist to the gut and he swallows against that fear. He finds it distasteful that it is a similar fear he felt when Rose said she was calling Mickey to meet them in Cardiff while they refueled. He knows he has no competition from the human-and truly, he is thankful that she has finally ended that particular charade-but that any other male might be the object of Rose's affection elicits something primal in him that he does not care for. Even Jack, at the start, the first moment he stepped in the TARDIS, knew that Rose was his, though now they are all thick and thieves and he loves the man from the 51st century nearly as fiercely as he loves the woman from the 21st.

"Lemme go!" she yelps, trying unsuccessfully to extract herself from his grasp. He laughs at her struggle and retaliates by tickling the bottom of her foot. She giggles uncontrollably, begging him to stop, but he is having too much fun, and has other plans for her. Still torturing her foot, he manages to extricate himself from underneath the console and engage her in a tickling match.

They wrestle and play and as he joins in her giggles, he thinks, _She has given me this. She taught me that this is okay._

He knows that he was not capable of this when he first met her. He tries to remember which of his incarnations would have reveled in this kind of fun, would have allowed himself this time to play. Though he knows some of his incarnations have been cranks, others dandies, some eccentrics and some clowns, he cannot say for certain if any of his previous selves would have engaged in a wrestling match with a damp, half naked, nearly twenty year old twenty first century human female.

Somehow she manages (or he allows her) to best him. She sits astride his lap, her nimble fingers ticking his sides until he is as worn out from laughter as she is and neither of them can struggle. He looks up into her flushed, joyous face as he has several times before and does his best to continue breathing as he sees in her face the way she sees him. She does not see him as a crank or a clown, dandy or eccentric, killer or coward-he thinks she sees it all and understands it even if she cannot put voice to it.

He thinks (or hopes) that she sees him as a man, a man with flaws, but as a man. He has rebelled against his people, destroyed them all, and yet she trusts him enough to save her, to play with her, to protect her, to hold her while she sleeps and make love to her in any way he deigns. He does not deserve her and perhaps succumbing to her already ruins him, but he has. He is a man gone.

As he destroyed his planet to stop the Daleks, he would destroy many more to stop her from coming to harm. Under his laughter, behind his smile, he is terrified that Rose holds so much power over him, and that he has willingly given that power to her. Still, he knows he cannot lose her and will do everything in his power-and beyond-to keep her alive and with him. He knows that with him, she may come to harm sooner than without him, but he cannot bring himself to admit that one day he might have to let her go.

Rose collapses against him, panting, her cheeks damp with laughter-induced tears. His arms come around her waist and she presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat. He returns the gesture by kissing the top of her head, and then squeezes her waist, a signal that he wants to get up. As much as he may enjoy these moments with her, there is still work to do. She obliges him, slipping out of his arms and rolling away from him. He stands, feeling his back twinge a bit, and helps her to her feet. Then he returns to underneath the console.

"Wotcha doin'?" she asks, curling up in the captain's chair. From his vantage point, he can see her smooth legs, still slick with whatever lotion she slathered on them twist under her in a position she insists is comfortable, but he thinks is more suited to a contortionist. Then against, she is a former gymnast, and she is tremendously flexible…

"Doctor?" Her lips quirk into a wicked grin, and she leans towards him, giving him more than a glimpse of her cleavage. She's wearing that button-down shirt again. Her hair, still damp, hangs loose about her shoulders and her face is entirely bare. He likes her best this way, clean and unadorned. No mask of cosmetics to hide her face, to make her look tougher or-she thinks-more beautiful. These are his favorite moments with her. Though he swells with pride and affection every time she is brave or selfless or heroic or kind, the trust she has of him in moments like these, the quiet, simple moments, makes him the most glad to know her, to spend this part of his life with her.

She smiles at him affectionately, waiting patiently for him to speak.

He shrugs, "Just tinkering. The TARDIS was getting a bit knackered after the trip to Raxacoricofallapatorius, so I decided to give her a quick tune up."

She nods, always accepting of, and generally does not tease him about his affection for his ship. "Almost done?"

He shrugs again. "Dunno, why? Captain Jack not entertaining you anymore?" He puts on an annoyed expression, affecting a jealousy for Jack he does not truly feel.

She grins. "Oi! There you go with the Captain envy again! We asked you to watch the movie with us, but you wanted to come 'ere and tinker!"

"What was the movie called, again?" he asks.

_"28 Days Later."_

"And the plot was…?"

She bites her lip, trying to pretend the film didn't have an absurd plot. "Killer virus turns everyone in London to zombies. Rape, anarchy, gore, and general mayhem ensue."

He snorts. "Charming. I show you the Gelth, the Slitheen, the Face of Boe; you travel to 1941 and witness gas mask zombies and still you want to watch some Hollywood picture about killer zombies. You humans, give you more than you could imagine and still you want more. Killer zombies! Didn't you get enough of them in 1941? You're watching them on telly for entertainment? I don't know about you, but if I lived in Norway, I'd go someone warm for my winter holiday."

Finished, he looks at her and finds her looking at him as one might look at a slightly slow twelve-year-old, arms crossed, her head shaking slightly. "Ok, your ranting aside, do you know when you're going to be finished?"

He stops his work for a moment. "Half an hour, maybe? You don't have to wait up for me. If you're tired, go to bed."

She shrugs, "That's the thing. I'm not particularly tired. I was hoping you'd be interested in helping me get tired. But, the TARDIS is clearly in need of tinkering, so I'll just go to the library and read…or something."

And with that she saunters off, not even bothering to throw a saucy look over her shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

Nine hundred year old Time Lords have enormous restraint. He waits an entire ten minutes before abandoning his work and seeking out Rose in the library.

He finds her curled up on a plush couch that the TARDIS created expressly for her. When Rose arrived, the library was quite traditional, dark with heavy draperies and several leather armchairs. By the time they'd returned to London after twelve months-not-hours, the library was lighter, softer. For as much as he moans and groans, he secretly likes this redecoration. True, some of the TARDIS's choices have been questionable, but then again, so have his-the clown suit comes to mind, as does the wearing-of-vegetables. This redecoration, however, the way she suited herself to him after the War, and after he met Rose, adapting to his mood and Rose's personality, is lovely and he is reminded why his TARDIS is the best ship in the universe.

She is reading _The Time Traveler's Wife,_ a book he does not remember buying and that Rose denies bringing with her, and yet it is on his shelves all the same. The TARDIS can lack subtlety at times, and she is not without her sense of humor. Rose appears deeply engrossed in the novel, and he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed across his chest, content to watch her. Her brow is slightly furrowed, as though something intense is happening in the book's pages, and she is lightly biting her lower lip. To his slight dismay, she appears to have lost her earlier intentions, instead buried in her book. He considers returning to his work, but changes his mind. He has tinkered all he can tinker for now, and in his mind, the constant song of his magnificent ship hums stay...stay…

Shrugging off his leather jacket, an act he reserves only for those moments in which he is sure the universe will not implode, for it feels like he is taking off a protective armor and exposing himself to elements he is otherwise impervious to, he crosses the beige carpet-another Rose-inspired TARDIS decoration-and selects a thick tome entitled _The Snimativian Theory of Reverse Quantum Mechanics and The Universal Theory of Pies, Unabridged._ As he pulls the book down from the shelf, he feels his muscles, sore from a lifetime of fighting and running and from hours under the console tinkering, cry out. He rolls his neck from side to side and considers asking Rose to give him a back rub.

She looks up from her book and grins at him, tongue between teeth in the way he has found appealing since the first time he saw her do it, all those months ago on that city street when he admitted to her he was alone in the universe and she told him that he wasn't, and took him for chips.

"Done?" she asks, returning her eyes to her book, though he knows he has her full attention, and whatever trials Henry DeTamble and his wife Clare may have to suffer, Rose will read no more of them tonight.

He nods, "We're safely in the Vortex, where the TARDIS can rest a bit." He sits beside her on the couch, ankle resting on knee, and opens the massive book. He studies it intensely. In his peripheral vision, he sees Rose watch him queerly, as though she is expecting him to say something. He smiles inwardly and continues reading his book.

This is a dance they are perfecting, this dance of seduction, of comfort, of love. Though none of it is every spoken aloud-not by either of them anyway, though the Dalek and Jack and Mickey seem keen on pointing it out-he knows it to be true, and knows she does not need words. Perhaps when she first joined him, nineteen and fresh and young and new, she may have needed to hear the words, hear grand declarations of affection and emotion, but now, though she is still nineteen and fresh and young, he has shown her things and she has grown and she knows he cannot give her those words. For a while, he feared she would not be content to live without the words, that she would need grand declarations of affection and emotion from him and he cannot give her that. But she has never asked and he hopes she never does, because he does not know if he has it in him anymore.

He barely makes it to the second page before Rose is lifting the book from his lap, grunting a little under the weight of it. He chuckles. "Need some help?"

"Shut it," she orders, dropping the book to the floor with a heavy thud and taking its place in his lap. His feet fall flat to the floor as she settles against him, her arms draped over his shoulders, her bare thighs squeezing his. She begins peppering feather-light kisses along his jaw line, moving to his neck, and he grins, his hands sliding up under the oversized men's shirt she is wearing and he caresses her warm skin. He feels tongue and lips and teeth at his earlobe and tightens his hold on her as she gives it a firm tug. The first time those lips and tongue and teeth closed around one of his earlobes, he was suddenly very thankful for their size this time around.

Her lips travel again, leaving his ear and traveling back down his neck. He feels her push his jumper aside a bit, and then she is sucking on his collarbone.

"Rose Tyler," he says, his voice impressively even and calm, despite her ministrations. "Are you giving me a hickey?"

"Mmhmm." Her answer reverberates through his skin, through bone and sinew as she continues with her task. She has always had a wonderful sense of concentration and dedication to her work.

When she is finished marking him, her mouth leaves his skin with a faint popping noise, like a suction cup being pulled off bathroom tile, and she sits back, admiring her handiwork. Her fingers skim the purple bruise, her mark. She looks almost proud, and slightly predatory.

"What'dya hafta go and do that for?" he asks with mock-annoyance, fingers lightly tracing her ribs. She has grown thinner, leaner, since he met her, since she first allowed his hands to roam across her body. All the running he makes her do, it has trimmed her down and hardened her muscles and he tries not to think about other ways his life may have made her hard.

Speaking of hard…

She is situated right on top of his stirring cock and she twists her hips slightly, eliciting from him a gasp. Between that and the hickey, she is grinning rather self-satisfactorily and he has a mighty urge to wipe that smirk from her lips. "You love it," she murmurs, her eyes sparkling, challenging him.

He moves to kiss her, intent on burning that grin off her lips and breaking some of that control she seems so proud of. They take great pride in seeing who can prolong foreplay most, who can hold off orgasm the longest. It is a battle, a game, and both sides emerge the winner. For a nineteen-year-old human, she has amazing restraint and control and is wonderfully good at whatever sexual activity she sets her mind to, and he has tried not to think that she may have learned such things from the men in her past. He doubts it. He likes, rather, to believe she was always this innately sexualized, and has been waiting for him to come along and bring it out of her.

Nine hundred year old Time Lords can be awfully arrogant, especially when it comes to sex.

He moves to kiss her and she pulls her head back, grinning. She makes him chase her, moving her head away from his, ducking away at the last minute, laughing. Her laughter is music and he wishes he could bottle it. In a way, he supposes, he already has.

He grabs her face, holding it between his palms. "Stay," he growls, and kisses her, claiming her mouth with equal parts force and tenderness. One of her hands flattens against his chest, over his hearts, as though she is trying to get an imprint of them to keep for eternity, while the other pulls him closer to her. The angle changes, though he is not sure which one of them effects the change, and he feels her trace his teeth with her tongue and he wants more, wants to breathe her, devour her.

Her hand on the back of his neck squeezes and he groans into her mouth as his muscles nearly weep in appreciation. She pulls away and looks at him. "You alright?"

He nods, "Just a bit sore, is all. I was gonna ask you to give my back a rub, but since you have other plans…"

He can see her expression change, and he knows whatever she may have had in mind for him is on hold. She begins pulling his jumper up over his head. All right then, maybe she hasn't changed her mind.

Jumper off, she extricates herself from his lap. _Damn._ "On the floor," she commands, standing. "Do you want a massage or not?"

He looks up at her. "It's alright. It can wait."

She shakes her head. "Your back hurts. I can help. On the floor." Her hands are on her hips and he wonders why they never tried a little domination before. He makes a mental note to suggest it very soon.

"But…" He looks down at his crotch, his cock beginning to strain at his black jeans.

Rose looks at it, then bites her lip, her mouth spreading into a grin. She folds her arms across her chest. "Doctor, did I tell you my mother called? She was telling me about this new wax she got for her legs…."

"Oi!" That does it. One mention of Jacqueline Andrea Suzette Prentice Tyler and his penis deflates like a flan in the cupboard. He jumps to his feet and scowls at her. "That was not fair."

She affects a look of pity, though he knows she is silently laughing at him, and pecks him on the cheek. "You'll live. Besides, I'm fairly certain I can get it back like that." She grins cheekily and snaps her fingers and he has a flash of Adam's head opening. Well, if his erection hadn't died under the threat of Jackie Tyler, the thought of that stupid sod most certainly does the trick.

He looks at the floor and wrinkles his nose. "Lookit me, all shirtless thanks to you. That carpet'll itch."

She rolls her eyes. "You're such a baby." She pulls a blanket off the couch with a flourish and settles it on the floor like a picnic blanket. In his mind, he can almost hear the TARDIS chuckling. He's surrounded by females who get endless amusement from torturing him. Good thing he has tremendous affection for them both.

Rose is kneeling at the edge of the blanket, looking at him expectantly, and he is only too happy to oblige her. He did ask for this, after all. He kneels beside her and smiles appreciatively. "Down you go," she orders, making a show of cracking her knuckles. He stretches out on the warm blanket, thanking the TARDIS for providing it for him and her song changes to answer him. His mind fills with gold and light as he feels Rose run her finger tips lightly through his short hair. He moans slightly and moves into her touch. She gently scratches the back of his neck, as though he was a cat, and he wonders if she expects him to start purring.

He turns his head to look at her, and sees she has risen to her knees along side him. She smiles affectionately at him and whispers, "Close your eyes."

Again, he is only too happy to oblige her. She begins to knead the sore muscles in his neck and he groans. Her tentative, gentle strokes become stronger, harder. For such a tiny, young creature, he never ceases to be amazed by her strength, both physical and otherwise. He can feel the tension in his body ebb ever so slightly-which is about as much as it ever can-and he relaxes under her touch; again, as much as he can. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to completely relax but here, under her hands and skillful fingers, he allows himself the tiniest bit of release.

He knows these are her favorite times with him. Although she loves the adventure he brings her-and perhaps she loves him first and foremost for the fact that he cured all her boredom, and gave her the life she always dreamed of-he knows she loves when he surrenders himself to her, gives her some modicum of control. The rest of the time, she is more than willing to let him lead, though she does have a penchant for wandering off and getting herself into trouble, but he knows she is grateful that he trusts her enough to make himself in any way vulnerable to her. She said as much to him once, one night as he lay in her arms; she thanked him for giving himself to her. He has not, and cannot, find the words to tell her that she is welcome, and that it is she who must be thanked, because he never thought he'd be able to let go like this, in any way. Not after what happened. Not after the War.

He is prostrate before her and pliant in her hands. He feels as though he is offering himself to her, although he knows he did that ages ago and she accepted him and they have been flying, dancing, running, laughing ever since. She moves to sit atop him, her movements slow and practiced and he sighs. He feels her perch herself on the back of his thighs, her hands sure and steady, kneading muscle, pressing against knots, bringing relief, despite the pain. He grunts, every so often, when she hits a particularly difficult knot and has to press harder, but he does not complain. As far as he is concerned she can do this to him forever, and he would willingly be her slave. She massages his lower back, leaning on her palms as though she is planning to do a handstand and he hears and feels the bones crack and settle and he smiles.

"Creaky," she murmurs ruefully.

"Nine hundred years old," he replies, feeling sleepy.

She runs her knuckles over his back as though she is running scales on a piano and he reconsiders that whole purring thing. He is getting sleepier and sleepier and does not want to fall asleep. As he begins running through the Siseneg alphabet-five hundred characters!-in his mind, he feels Rose lean forward, languidly covering his body with hers.

"Tired?" she asks, her lips tickling his ear.

"No," he mumbles into the blanket.

"Riiight." She begins pressing her fingers up and down his neck and kills any hopes of staying awake he may have had. The last thing he feels before falling asleep is her lips against the back of his neck. "My Doctor," she murmurs, and then he knows no more.

He comes to with a start and it takes him a moment to realize where he is. He smells fire and burning and his hearts pound furiously and in that moment he thinks he hears a planet screaming. Then he feels a blanket, soft against his skin, and he is bare on top and then he remembers. He turns his head and sees Rose, stretched out on the couch, reading by the light of the fireplace. She looks at him and smiles.

"How long was I asleep?" he asks, rolling to face her and propping himself up on one elbow.

She shrugs, "About twenty minutes, maybe. Feel better?"

He nods and slowly brings himself to his feet. Whatever pain was in his muscles is more or less gone now. She sets her book aside, watching him. Feeling groggy and something in any other regeneration he would have identified as happiness and contentment. In this body, after everything, he's not quite willing to admit happiness.

Rose holds her hand out to him, her eyes lit by the glow of the fire. He takes her hand and in one move, settles his body on top of her on the couch. Her legs part to accommodate him and her arms settle around him. He snuggles down into her, his head below her chin, ear to her chest as her one heart goes thump-thump, thump-thump and he feels her run her fingernails lightly over his back. She leans her head against the couch and closes her eyes as they breathe each other in, just lying there.

He has never made a habit of using his companions as human pillows, and yet here he is, blanketing Rose Tyler as though she is his own personal mattress. He feels slightly guilty, finding respite in her when he has caused so much pain, so much destruction. He promised her mother he'd always protect her, swore to himself even before that that he'd do it all the same, and yet her life with him has been one of constant peril. It has always been so, yet he wonders, even after all this time, why Death follows him like an obsessed lover who can't let go of a relationship long since passed.

He wonders, also, why he insists on taking Companions, though he always very nearly ends up, and sometimes succeeds in, getting them killed. He has loved so many and lost them all to Death or Love or Life and in the end he is always alone and yet always hates that it is so. The Oncoming Storm, the Killer of His Own Kind who would be better off alone, and no other would ever have to suffer for his folly. He knows, though, acknowledges that he is too selfish, that he cannot bare to be alone more than he cannot bare watching them leave or die, and so he takes on Companions and tries not to feel like he has signed another death certificate every time one walks through the TARDIS doors for the first time.

Rose ran through the TARDIS doors, mostly of her own accord. But then again, they were being chased by an Auton. And he did invite her in. And then he invited her to come with him. How stupid he'd been! What a rash decision! She'd said no and that should have been the end of it and he'd left and traveled for a month, exploring the past. He'd watched President Kennedy die, just so that he could witness history, even if it meant seeing blood and brains scatter across the back of the car and listening to the screams of the man's wife. He'd gone to Southampton before the launch of the Titanic and, despite his better judgment-he'd just wanted to get a look at her-he'd stopped a man with a wife and children from getting on board. He'd traveled on-Sumatra, the T'Luocip Empire in the year 43K-2.75, the Great Chicken Revolt on Nosrettap Prime in the year Six-and yet he'd been lonely. For reasons he is still unable to explain, he returned to London , to 2005, to ten seconds after the TARDIS hadematerialized from that alley. She was still there, of course she was, and all he needed was eight words and she was his.

_"Did I mention it also travels in time?"_

And they were off. Another death certificate signed in the name of Adventure. Companionship. Of not being Alone.

"Don't fall asleep on me," she warns jokingly, her voice full of life, so much that it makes him ache. "Or I'll have such a case of pins and needles in the morning…"

"I'll make it up to you," he promises, grinning, wishing he could promise her that she will never die, that she will never want to leave, that things won't change. He doesn't want them to and he hasn't explained to her how things can change, and in how many ways, and he knows one day it is going to bite him in the ass. He does not want her to leave and yet he knows that he is lying to say it isn't a possibility.

She has made him whole-more whole, not complete, because that is both droll and the stuff reserved for trashy romance novels, but he knows he is less of a walking, bleeding wound and more of a scar, a dull ache, which is still more than he could have hoped for-and she may die for it. May die for loving him. He knows that she has decided never to leave him and has not considered that he might make her leave. It is a reality he'd rather not think about, himself.

He turns in her arms so that his back is resting against her chest, his head on her shoulder. He can feel her chest rising and falling as she breathes, and he thinks_ So long as her heart is beating and she draws breath, I would keep her with me._ She has one knee bent to better accommodate him, now that they are lounging instead of lying on the couch, and he takes her foot, peeling off the sock. Her toes are painted a deep apple red and they glisten in the flickering light. Aching to touch her, to feel her even more solid and human and there, he begins to knead her foot, pressing his thumb deftly into her arch and she drops her head back with a groan.

"God, you're brilliant," she breathes, a contented smile coming to her face.

"That's what I've been telling you," he replies. He goes to work on her foot, intent on making her pliant in his hands. He has half a mind to take her a few levels down the ladder until she is little more than a writhing, moaning bundle of nerves and sensation. Eventually, he switches to her other foot and Rose begins to hum happily, her hums turning into moans of delight.

"Noisy little human," he chides, setting her foot down.

"You love it," she retorts.

In response, he pulls out of her arms and turns, pulling her under him. She looks up at him, her hair splayed out around her, blonde curtains, wings of light and her eyes tell him all he needs to know. Slowly, with nimble fingers, he unbuttons her shirt, starting at the bottom and working his way up until she is exposed fully but for her knickers. He swoops down to kiss her. She has marked him with her lips and he has marked her with his wounds, his mouth, his adventures, his selfishness. He is hers and so long as she lives, she is his-even after, she will be his, like Peri and Adric and Sarah-Jane, Susan and Ace, Nyssa and Tegan. They are all his and he is theirs and somewhere in space-time he is with them and they are with him and they are dead and he is gone.

The foreplay lasts long enough for him to get her writhing and moaning and his cock is hard enough he's pretty sure it can ride some of the scarier rides at Euro Disney without a parent.

Nine hundred year old Time Lords can be remarkably dedicated and have wonderful senses of concentration, especially when it comes to sex. When he comes, she clamps down around him and whispers, "Never leave me."

He is insatiable tonight, and he makes love to her on the couch, on the carpet, and eventually in his bed. He quite possibly could do this all night and into the next day, leaving bed only for trips to the bathroom and the kitchen, just for water and fruit to prevent scurvy, but as he moves to nibble her ear, his hand drifting across the planes of her stomach, he discovers that Rose has other plans.

"Oi! Doctor!" she mumbles into a pillow. "I'm not going to be able to sit tomorrow! I'm only human you know-d'ya mind if I get some sleep?"

He frowns, considering her request, but she is back to sleep before he can formulate a proper answer. Sighing, restless and without hope of sleeping, he slips out of bed, dressing fully, right down the green jumper and leather jacket. He wanders the TARDIS halls, itching for something to do. He hopes Jack is awake.

He is not.

Bloody humans-sleeping half their lives away.

Their very short lives that start in blood and end in dust and it all happens in the space between his breaths, and he knows that he may be shortening those short lives by keeping them with him. But Jack is his own man, former Time Agent, 51st Century human, expert dancer-he will go when he is ready and not a moment before, even if he is only ready in death. Rose, on the other hand, he has vowed to keep safe, and he is a man who keeps his vows-even if near death by a bitchy trampoline, Gelth, Slitheen, Dalek, and Jagrafess claim otherwise.

_"Never leave me,"_ she'd said.

_"Promise me you'll never die,"_ he'd wanted to say.

Back in the console room, he stokes the TARDIS affectionately. Then, hitting a few buttons, he positions himself in front of a rather inauspicious looking hole that is really a very sophisticated holo-camera, and begins to speak. "This is Emergency Programme One. Rose, now listen…"


End file.
